


transfix me

by DRONE (approximate)



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Churches, M/M, andrew looks good with a racquet, neil we can see your religion, thirst, vague blasphemy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 22:44:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18353246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/approximate/pseuds/DRONE
Summary: neil considers sanctuary





	transfix me

for all that exy pulls at his being, like tendon at muscle,  
neil often discovers, with no small amount of awe,  
that he can never quite turn away from the image of andrew in front of his goal,  
poised in perfect apathy. 

he really should not be affected like this,  
he thinks, sipping water idly,  
taking a moment to sit on the bench at the sidelines  
and massage his aching muscles. not anymore.  
not after so many seasons of victory under andrew’s silent, immaculate guard.  
neil takes another sip.

so when andrew, in all his boredom,  
pulls the racquet over his shoulders  
and winds his arms along its length in a casual crucifix,  
neil thinks of the churches he and his mother took refuge in sometimes. 

absconding across continent, ghost towns, ocean, night; the  
desperate pilgrims they were, he and mary, they found moments of tenuous peace  
in the generous vacancies left by god-fearing folk.  
for all that his father carved away his youth,  
neil remembers with cruel clarity the sacrificial son’s bloodied body.  
neil felt younger those nights in dark chapels, curled fetal on cold pews.  
so many eyes in those churches. stained, etched, wooden, marbled.  
he never understood how one could make a religion of scars. 

he chases the feeling with water,  
and follows the bend of andrew’s elbows over the racquet,  
the heavy swell of relaxed muscle, the limp wrists,  
and all his wrath, quieted by stillness. 

but he knows the desire to confess:  
andrew sliding dark bands off his forearms  
and laying bare almost-annihilation.  
andrew pulling his own shirt over his head,  
considering the carnage, and then fantasizing endless resurrection and endless patricide.  
andrew laying him bare, guiltlessly prostrate.  
witnesses to each other’s violence, neil thinks of their own stigmata.

yeah, maybe he can understand something of devotion.

**Author's Note:**

> baby's first ficlet


End file.
